Moving On
by Thisisarealtagwhy
Summary: Scott's world comes crashing down as she becomes lifeless in his arms, why can't he take her pain? Meditation is frankly the only way he can keep the threads of his sanity together and eventually he finds himself at a cliff, the cliff, the one she specified to be cremated at. "Scott?" And without turning, he knows that Lydia and Derek are behind him.


_I'm rather curious about how Scott really coped with Allison's death and seeing as we didn't really get an answer ever, i wrote this. edit; i though that my initial marking of mature was over the top because while he doesn't actually attempt suicide, there's a lot of thoughts about it so it's now teen and up. **But please, if you are triggered by mentions of suicide, then don't read**. i really like Scott as a character despite this work, it was actually going to be Scott comforting Stiles about being nogistune but this came out instead, i hope you enjoy and if you can, feel free to leave a review :)_

* * *

 _Moving On_

Scott can't breathe sometimes. It's sad that he can say that without remarkable panic.

But, he thinks that this, this is fine.

It doesn't matter that all he can feel is _Allison Allison Allison,_ and all he can hear is Lydia's _god-awful_ scream, she sure as hell lived up to her name.

Allison is dead, she's _gone and never,_ _ever_ _coming back._ Remember that, remember how satisfying it was to finally _kill_ the Oni, despite their ties to Kira and the Yukimura's in general.

Sometimes, Scott has to _stop,_ he sits down on his carpeted floor and meditates, it's truly the only thing that can bring him peace of mind.

 _Breathe._

Taste the muskiness in the air of their house. Isaac's scent wafting through your nose, your mother's scent, as homely and warming as ever permeating throughout everywhere. The gum inside your back-pack and the scent of garbage from outside, the smell of freshly fallen rain, clipped grass.

 _Breathe._

Feel the carpet beneath you, your steady heartbeat, your clothes brush up against your skin, they're not constricting, but not too loose. Feel the pressure _consuming_ you, ignore it. Feel the slight temperature in the air as your mother moves through the house.

 _Breathe._

Smell, _everything,_ the trees, the foundations, the dirt, the nest of birds above in the rafters, the dogs a few blocks away. The smell of wet leaf litter, the creepy forest. Smell your _home,_ the way it makes you feel claustrophobic, not homely anymore.

 _Breathe._

See dust particles drift idly through your room, bathed in light from the sun. Look at the photos of Allison, _look at them,_ look at how happy she looks, how she's _not dead_ there. Look at your arms, the ones that held her cooling body. Look at the hands that tried _desperately_ to take her pain away.

 _Breathe._

Hear the dog that constantly barks a few blocks over. Hear the sound of your mother downstairs moving around, hear the light breeze fiddle with the trees. Hear chimes sound in the wind, hear your mother's steady heartbeat.

He's much calmer now, and it's with a rare sense of peace that he can stand and ignore the hallucination in his peripheral that has been bugging him for days.

Ever since the life left her, he's been seeing hints of her everywhere, in his wardrobe when he eyes the suit he wore to formal with her.

Even his pens, he can replay his first memory of her, _over_ and _over_ and _over_ again until he's back to root one where he can't breathe.

So, he ignores the little reminders of her and moves on with his life.

He knows that his mother is worried about him, _he's_ worried about himself.

He's been having thoughts recently, like, what if he were to just inject himself with wolfsbane? Would it be a long and painful death? Probably, would he deserve it? Most definitely.

The fact that he can tell himself that easily without compunction is what alerts himself to the fact that he's probably not all that safe right now.

But he can't tell _anyone,_ Stiles is dealing with enough on his own, he doesn't need Scott's added weight to his own grief.

So, he gets on his motorbike, not slowing down until he reaches the spot they decided to release her ashes, Allison did have instructions on what to do if she were to perish; to be cremated and released into the ocean so she could be free.

She got her wish, as soon as the police decided that her body did not require to be used to discern the mugging attack, Mr Argent had her cremated and left the entire country.

Isaac in tow, they're both gone and he hasn't felt as empty as now as when he had been told that there was an actual _demon_ inside his friend. Although, he has felt off since there was a vice of darkness clasped around all of their hearts.

He sits at the edge of the cliff, there were flowers there recently, he can tell because he can smell the remains of them.

Wouldn't it be positively _awful_ if he were to simply slide off? Hurtle to a painful death? He isn't even sure whether a werewolf would die if they fell this far.

He hears footsteps behind him and doesn't need to turn to know that it's Derek, accompanied by Lydia apparently.

"Scott?" When did Lydia's voice become so dull? Somewhere between her best friend dying and the aftermath he supposes. Or, maybe it was always dull, simply masked by glitter and stupidity.

"Lydia, Derek." He nods, still looking out at the sea, he doesn't want to look at them, because he has a creeping suspicion that if he does, he's going to start crying.

He can already feel the symptoms creep in, the lump in his throat, the moistness around his eyes, the ache in his heart.

"Can you come away from the cliff?" Lydia asks, and is she already crying? Why would she be crying?

Oh right, suicidal thoughts, banshee. Whatever, right now, he's willing to abandon his pack's wishes briefly.

She was his world, and she was destroyed.

He isn't really expecting it when they box him in either side. "Scott." And since when was Derek's voice so soft? How could such a gruff man be capable of it.

"She's dead." He whispers, still watching the sea, it's cold, he belatedly realises, shivering.

"Yes, she is," Derek concedes "but she wouldn't want you to do this to yourself."

"We won't know, will we?" He replies easily, he can play this timeless game.

"Scott, please come home, Melissa's worried about you, we're _all_ worried about you." Lydia says, her lips pursed in that weird way she tries her best to prevent her tears to fall from her pretty eyes.

That makes him hesitate, his mother, and all thoughts of jumping leave him. He can't leave her alone.

He lurches back from the edge, stumbling away from it, he ends up dry heaving – he hasn't eaten anything to come back up – he was _really_ considering it, what kind of an alpha was he? What kind of _son friend brother_ considered such an act.

And suddenly there are two bodies surrounding him, hugging him oh-so-tightly, giving him warmth and strength he hasn't felt in weeks. He begins to cry somewhere in between Derek's broad shoulders and Lydia's petite ones. It gives him surprising comfort.

And he thinks,

Maybe he can do this.

And with that thought, the links of _his_ pack flare into life, golden threads intertwined with his life, how could he leave them?

* * *

right, that little last bit is based off a little something from _Virals_ by Kathy Reiches (great read btw) where they kind of turn into werewolves? and one of them - the leader - can sense her pack when she's in her 'wolfed out' mode, they're connected by golden thread, thus the last lines of this fic, hope y'all enjoyed


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